Page 204 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"Colonel!" Charles called out, his voice slightly too loud for the hushed atmosphere of the club, causing a nearby Duke to snort himself awake.

The Colonel jumped, skidding his chair back an inch and nearly upsetting his brandy. He offered a bow that was mostly a plea for quiet. "Bingley. Good heavens. I thought you would be in Brighton by now."

"Brighton is full of the Prince Regent's corsets," Charles said, settling into the opposite chair with a look of vacuous cheer. "I prefer the quiet of London. Or rather, I am here because I have nowhere else to go. May I join you? Is that the news? Is the King well?"

"The casualty lists," the Colonel replied, his blue eyes bright with anxious politeness. "It prevents one from becoming too attached to the trivialities of London. My grandmother insists I develop more gravity. She says I am too uncomplicated."

Charles leaned forward, his face bright with a misplaced zeal. "Uncomplicated? That sounds marvellous! I have spent a great deal of time trying to be uncomplicated. At the moment, I feel like a man who has wandered into the wrong party and is too polite to leave. I even forgot my own name for a second. Orrather, I forgot Miss Ellington's name. It was quite rude of me, considering I bought her a fan."

The Colonel beckoned for a waiter and ordered a plate of toast and more brandy. He watched the man depart and then his eyes landed on Charles. "Have you been to see your sister, Mrs Hurst?"

"I have," Charles sighed, indicating that he had barely survived a great trial. "She is consuming the entire red herring population of the North Sea and the baby is a sentient lump of wool and moisture. I held him, Colonel. He tried to eat my cravat. A Hurst after his father's own heart, I suspect."

The Colonel's mouth twitched. "And Mr Hurst?"

"Mistaking spirits for tea. You know, Colonel, when I sent the Hursts back to their own home, I felt a surge of authority. But now... now I have the authority and no one to use it on. It is a very large responsibility, having no one to tell what to do."

Charles took a bite of the club's toast, which he found to be of a superior quality—buttered on both sides, a delightful decadence. "Have you any news of my brother Richard? And Caroline? I assume Thornwood is still standing?"

"Mr Fitzwilliam writes every week. He says it is a scene of carnage. Your sister has decided to redecorate the parlour in the French style, which he equates with betrayal to the Crown. He has decided the library is the only place he can drink his mediocre brandy and contemplate the futility of existence. It is a stalemate involving two sofas, a collection of poetry, and a great deal of shouting."

"Gosh! Carnage?" Charles's eyes widened. "I hope she has not ruined the curtains. He was very fond of the velvet ones. But they sound... busy, do they not? They bicker and they shout and they... they are alive." His face fell, his enthusiasm replaced by a sudden, chilling realisation.

"I am the ghost at the feast, Colonel. I am the spare man. I am the uncle who holds the baby and the brother who is left behind. Everyone else is fighting or loving or making babies. I am merely... vertical. I am a garnish, Colonel. A sprig of parsley on the steak of life."

The Colonel looked at him for a long while, his brow furrowed in grave thought. "Then stop being parsley, Bingley. Be the steak. Or at least the potato. You need substance. You have a property in Hertfordshire. A lease you have paid for and never really used. Netherfield."

The nameNetherfieldhit Charles with longing. He thought of Jane Bennet. He thought of the way she had looked at him—that angel in muslin—before he had allowed himself to be led away.

"I cannot go back there," he whispered, his voice trembling with a sudden, frantic energy. "Mrs Bennet likely has a pitchfork with my name on it. And the village... they remember me as the coward who fled. I was a man of straw, Colonel. A man of fluff."

"Then go back as something else," the Colonel shrugged. "Go back as a man of substance."

Charles stood up. The movement was abrupt, knocking his chair back against the wall. His eyes, usually mild and friendly, were suddenly burning with a new light.

"Substance," he repeated. "Yes. That is it. I shall not merely go back, Colonel. I shall go back as a Man of Depth."

"A Man of Depth?" the Colonel asked, taking a cautious sip of brandy.

"Precisely!" Charles began to pace the small area in front of the fireplace, his buttons glinting aggressively. "I have spent my life skimming the surface, Colonel. Smiling. Agreeing. Buying coats. No more! I shall cultivate gravity. I shall develop opinions on things I do not enjoy!"

He stopped and counted off on his fingers, his voice rising in excitement.

"I shall read books that weigh more than my head! Books with no pictures and very small letters! I shall stare at landscapes and feel melancholy instead of just thinking 'oh, that is a nice tree.' I shall have strong views on crop rotation! I shall be inscrutable!"

"Inscrutable?" the Colonel raised an eyebrow. "You?"

"I shall scowl," Charles promised fervently. "I shall practise in the mirror. I will arrive at Netherfield, and they will say, 'Is that Charles Bingley, the amiable man with the exquisite waistcoats?' and I shall look at them with a dark, brooding intensity and say something about the price of corn."

"The price of corn is actually quite high," the Colonel noted.

"See? I am already bored!" Charles cried triumphantly. "That is the Depth working! I shall face the pitchforks, not because another tells me to, but because a Man of Depth does not fear agricultural implements. I shall manage the estate. I shall audit the accounts. I shall be so profound, Colonel, that I might accidentally drown in my own gravitas."

"I would aim for 'competent' first, Bingley," the Colonel advised dryly. Then he nodded, once, a short gesture of approval. "But it is a solid objective. It is the only cure for a man of your temperament."

"I shall leave immediately," Charles declared. "The Season is dead. I see no reason to wait for the burial. I go to Hertfordshire! To destiny!"

He reached out and shook the Colonel's hand, the grip firm and decisive.